Forced Stasis
by HumBee
Summary: Warnings: Sticky, tentacles , PWP Had this one sitting around in my files for AGES and tonight's episode of Prime finally perked up my muse enough to finish it. It's a little choppy, I haven't had it checked over by a beta.


Something was coiling around the red and white medic. Wrapping. Holding tight to his frame and making his armor clench in tight. Bonds? But they seemed too numerous in the places where he could feel them.

How long had he been in stasis? Memory files were coming up blurry and his systems seemed to be locked in offline mode. Had he been put under? He didn't remember having any reason for being in such a state. Of course, he could hardly remember what he was doing before he was suddenly awakening, groggy and disoriented.

The coils tightened, and Ratchet hissed, at least in his own consciousness. This was increasingly strange. Nothing he tried made any of his normal systems come back online. Why were his touch receptors still on while the rest of him was unresponsive? Even his optical and audial sensors were totally out.

He ran a systems check and found nothing on the basic run through. But upon trying to go deeper, he was hit by firewalls, strange ones he'd never encountered. They definitely weren't of his design, what would they be doing there? Who in the world installed-

His armor plates heaved a groan of protest as the things wrapped around him squeezed hard enough to hurt a little, and he mimicked the sound inwardly within his processor, his original train of thought completely derailed. With those firewalls firmly in place and no feasible way to overcome them, he tried to think up another way out before those coils really did lasting damage to him. However, it seemed whatever entity was holding him was intent on distracting him. The coils started to undulate, obviously satisfied with how firm their grasp was, and there was a sudden sensation of prods slithering into what little space there was in his armor, teasing connectors and sensor nodes, as if trying to soothe any discomfort. Fat chance of that, he snorted to himself. He wasn't dull enough to be unable to put two and to together and figure out what was going on, why he was strung up like this, and he most definitely wasn't about ready to give in to juvenile touches and squeezes like this. He still couldn't make a guess as to who, but their motives were becoming more blatantly obvious.

Ratchet gave a low growl as the prods kept going, pushing in further even underneath the grip of the coils. Daring little pieces of scrap, they were. If he was actually conscious, they'd be tasting more than just his well-armored node clusters, more akin to the flavour of a cannon blast. But as they continued their tirade, he cursed and tried pulling in his armor close to his protoform, only to remember too late that he couldn't control anything except his thoughts. Fraggit.

It was the sudden addition of heat coursing through the wrapped bonds that made him lose his focus; he hadn't been expecting that sort of tenacity. Despite his unwillingness, his armor started to loosen along with his joints, and he cursed himself for not taking better care of those so he wouldn't be so affected by the slow increase in temperature that was making his frame respond so favorably towards the relieving warmth. Thankfully, even for the ulterior motive he knew the appendages to have, they were moving slowly and methodically, giving him time to react and try to collect himself and form a retaliation, even if it was merely mental. Which was also failing miserably.

The fight against this formless entity became even more futile once the now-heated prod tips practically drilled their way down the spanse of his armor and focused primarily on spots that were erogenous zones on most mechs. It didn't matter then that he knew this would eventually happen, the suddenness took him by surprise anyway, as did the intensity of the heat pressing into his hip nodes, and he felt another groan roil inside him before he could stop it. It seemed no use to convince himself that he didn't enjoy what the blasted things were doing to him. Sensations would cause reactions and right now those sensations were making him half-wish he could actually physically respond more than to slowly start to heat. He did, however, feel himself loosening up involuntarily, and he swore there was a twitch of his hips that encouraged the prods to wriggle faster, harder, against the sensitive and underused nodes. With that subtle urge to go on, they took the initiative and jammed their way downwards into his pelvic armor, finding the inner sheaths to his arrays and stroking around them. Inside his processor he cursed loudly at just how good that felt. He'd been expecting to be torn open and taken like a pleasure model, not teased and brought surging to the edge of an overload like this. There was a keen rising in his vocalizer but couldn't let it loose, and more than ever wanted to be fully online for this torture. His frame heated enough to finally send pings of warning to him, and it responded to the alerts by itself, vents switching onto high gear and heatsinks whirring to life. Obviously the devious things working him from the inside found the new development most delightful, and squirmed more intently among his wiring, their tips sending little jolts of unexpected charge that sent his hips jerking.

There, it'd really started, and he'd lost the battle completely. His valve had started to moisten inside of its cover, and the heat his fans desperately worked to kick out was settling in his tanks and making them churn. His field flared, and he was already starting to tremble. It was too easy for his captor to notice, and they took advantage completely; to his shock, another pair of the prods appeared against his armor, from where he hadn't the foggiest. All the bonds around his arms and legs were the same, as were the squirms against his inner workings in his pelvis, these had to be completely new. And they were divebombing right for his panel. But instead of forcing it open like he assumed they would and had mentally prepared for in the case of excruciating pain, they squirmed and nipped at the hot metal. Nipped? Oh Primus, they'd split at the tip and were fingering along his seam. He swore to himself again right as the finger-like pinpricks shifted to the manual release and tested it, tempting it to unlock for them. Not that he could tell if he was unlocked in the first place. By now, he'd be surprised if he wasn't.  
Without warning, his panel was suddenly open. By force or by his body reacting and opening willingly, he wasn't sure. Nor did he care, with those claws raking over his covers until they irised open, further pleasing the appendages that rewarded him with teasing strokes around his valve rim. They ignored his spike housing, which was fine with him. He was used to receiving, and could even admit to preferring it most of the time. It was also fine when one decided to push at the lining just inside the rim, stretching it as the other shut back into its smooth tip and started to wriggle and penetrate inside. Going so long without interfacing had left him tight and incredibly responsive, and there was the burst of an even louder keen clawing at his vocals to be released. It didn't matter anymore that he was drugged, had alien firewalls installed, couldn't vocalize or see in the least, and had an unknown being stringing him up and slowly fragging his valve with a tentacle-like appendage. The snail's pace that was driving him up the wall, however, definitely did.

By then he'd completely resigned himself to the slow waves of pleasure from the heat radiating from both his own frame as well as the coiled appendages, and the pushes inside of his valve that stretched him almost methodically. Pride was put on the backburner in the face of being helpless to even think of trying to break the firewalls placed in his system. To hell with it, might as well enjoy the frag before he possibly died, or worse. He wasn't disappointed either; the tentacle inside of him writhed to stuff itself even deeper into him, and the one with its fingers spreading his entrance rotated and spread just the slightest to keep the sensations hot and alive. Whoever was doing this to him, they were maddeningly skilled at the slow buildup of heat and charge.

Then finally, after what seemed like an age, the thing inside him hit his ceiling cluster, and retreated to start up a surprisingly decent pace of thrusting into him, and even the one holding him wide open released him to allow his valve to fit more snugly around the appendage. Even with the extra stretch gone the whole thing felt amazing, and he could feel his fans really working at keeping him from overheating, blasting the hot air down the length of his frame. There wasn't anything special about the feel of the tentacle, other than it was smooth and ridgeless, but Ratchet gave the credit for this being such a hot experience to the fact that he was still strung into midair, his frame rocking back and forth as the thrusting gradually turned into more forceful pounding. Time and time again he wished his voice could be unleashed, but he was left with the horrible itch in his vocalizer and hearing his panting and uncontrolled moaning just in his head. Frag, this thing was good; even the free-swinging feeling between those powerful pumps was a thrilling rush. Somehow he felt dizzy, and all too soon the familiar crawl of an oncoming overload coiled itself inside of his lower abdomen. Even knowing he had no control over his frame, he tried to slow it down, to stave it off a while longer.

As if by a miracle, the tentacles suddenly stopped, and his heatsinks heaved, gasping, leaving his overload all too close for it to be comfortable despite having wanted to fend it off. As he was tossing back and forth in his mind whether he wanted to hurry up and climax or if he wanted to drag this out as long as possible, he felt the clear outline of a large form press up behind him, and actual fingers skittering up his legs until they rested on his hips, tilting them to put him almost in a bent over position. He knew what was coming, and some primal part of him ached for it. Not a moment later, there was a sharp tip prodding at his valve, obviously teasing, knowing full well how to tilt to slide inside. The fragger was still teasing him even with his spike so close to penetrating. Ratchet was swearing up and down, calling the mech every name in the book, until once again his thoughts were speared through to match the spike piercing into him, long and not terribly thick but fully ridged, enough to feel dangerous. There was no hesitation this time, the owner of the spike right away picked up a brutal pace, and each ridge flared to pluck over every node lining Ratchet's valve as possible. He yelled out, if only in his mind, and willed himself to arch back into the attention. It must have worked; the hands holding his hips gripped tighter and started to pull him back with every thrust forward, hitting ceiling with each and every buck and sending the medic to the moon and back.

The figure behind him was panting just as hard, a hard purr vibrating its chassis against his back. Each finger at his hips rubbed in slow circles, and something sharp, he could only guess dentae, attached around his neck wiring, tugging and nearly piercing before a tongue laved over the small wounds. Even for how quick the pace was, it'd been calculated, with each thrust hitting its mark in the same spot. Now, it was becoming more and more erratic, and though he couldn't hear it, the mech behind him keened shrilly as his spike started to swell. Ratchet could definitely feel the change though, and inwardly groaned again in preparation for the oncoming overload. His was right on the precipice just as well; he only needed one more good hard push to finally topple over. Heat from friction and radiance came off of the both of them in waves that could distort the air, and he could feel his valve array burning with a red hot glow.

Just as suddenly as it all started, Ratchet felt all of the coils shudder and tighten, and yelped when the spike inside him finally swelled to its max girth, ridges shoving apart his calipers almost painfully, and he felt a torrent of scalding fluid flooding him, hitting his ceiling hard enough to cause a backwash that seeped from the edges of his valve and dripped in rivulets down his thighs. The thickness and the final shove against his ceiling node cluster was just what he needed, and he careened into his own heated overload with his head ringing from his own inward cry. His valve collapsed, clamping tight, and he rode the waves of pleasure as long as he could will himself to. Thankfully the mech treating him obliged to letting him fully ride it out, prolonging his own overload, until Ratchet relaxed, allowing the spike to slide free of his valve. It was horrible to feel so empty, but on protocol his valve cover slicked right back into place, holding within him a slosh of fluid that still felt hot and alien.

The coils were loosening, and he felt himself being lowered to a prone position on a hard floor. In a motion that startled him, one of the firewalls released, allowing his audials to come back online, and just as he felt the sting of a different firewall already working him back into another forced stasis, a low, growling voice masked by a vocoder purred into an audial while a smooth face nuzzled against him.

"Autobot medic: adequate for interfacing."

There was even a cheeky way the voice raised at the end to make the statement sound like a tease. But as Ratchet began to put things together and curse the mech, the same program that knocked him out before worked its magic, and once more he was enveloped by darkness.


End file.
